Pierce had explained his plan to me over the phone. He wanted to recreate the circumstances of his invented mugging for real, in the hope of being attacked for real. The long, terrifying ordeal he had invented was unlikely to be replicated – or enacted, as it had never taken place – but he might at least get threatened and robbed. Maybe even roughed up. That, he figured, was enough: enough to show remorse, enough to show a willingness to atone, enough to show that he understood the reality of what he had created in fiction. What about the risk of more serious harm, I asked – what if he got himself stabbed? Well, it’s a risk, he said, but not very probable, especially with a witness there. Meaning me. He didn’t sound concerned. Indeed, I was left with the impression that he welcomed the risk. Did he want to get stabbed? Probably not, but he wanted the risk, he wanted it to be a real possibility. He wanted to put himself in the way of the blade.

What I did not understand was my own role. In Night Traffic, Pierce had been alone when he was attacked; this time, I would be with him. That must affect the likelihood of becoming a victim. He dismissed my concerns with a ‘We’ll see, we’ll find out.’ I don’t want to get mugged again, I said. Fine, said Pierce. Run. But not too far. I need you to witness.

That was the important part. He needed a witness. There could be no ambiguity about the facts. He needed proof. And so did I.

‘Anything I need to bring?’ I asked.

‘Your phone?’ Pierce said. ‘There might be a chance to document – you know, to film or something. Or photos, afterwards, of injuries.’

This made me think of my scraped face. ‘Won’t they take my phone? If it happens.’

A thoughtful pause. ‘Yeah, I suppose. Back up your files. You have insurance?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then you’re fine,’ Pierce said merrily. ‘You get a new phone. Sorted. Everyone wins. Oh, and dress smartly. Jacket and tie. Like you’ve been to a posh party.’

The fabrications in Night Traffic were set against a background of established fact. Pierce had been to a party, the launch of a friend’s book, and had drunk a good deal. Not as much as me on an average night, but a good deal for a civilian. Another friend, who lived further east, out in Leyton, had called a minicab, and had offered to drop Pierce along the way. They had expected to leave the centre via Whitechapel Road, which would ultimately pass by the end of Pierce’s street. But the driver had instead chosen Commercial Road. It had been a warm night, and rather than argue and demand a detour, Pierce had asked to be dropped at the bottom of Burdett Road, a long connecting street, intending to walk the rest of the way home. He was cheerful from drink and friendship. I remembered nights like those. Halfway, he deviated from the main road into a side street, trying to shave a minute or two off the walk.